


A Hundred Days of Sorrow

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-31 18:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12138531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: When a man from Phryne's past is accused of murder, she has to face the role rumours played in the downfall of the relationship as she clears his name. If only it wasn't Jack Robinson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/gifts).



> So, this was supposed to be a really long, detailed fic and ended up somewhere else stylistically. I'm not sure if it works as a whole, but the first chapter pleases me at least.
> 
> Also, it is the lovely deedeeinfj's birthday, so lucky her gets gifted angst. Sorry? It'll be fine--if I don't fix them, you totally can. ;-D
> 
> Also also, ficathon signups close THURSDAY. [Signup information here.](firesign23.tumblr.com/post/165492545662/phryne-ficathon-3-3-days-left)

Phryne’s companion for the evening was named Joe, a scandalously young man with eyes the colour of sea glass and a tongue that made him the topic of much discussion amongst Phryne’s fast set. They had gone to dinner, then dancing, and finally returned to Wardlow amidst a downpour that had left their shoes soaking wet. A roaring fire, a fur throw, and some very heated kissing had kept the chill at bay though, and Phryne had just tossed the throw on the floor and was encouraging him down when there was a knock on the door.

She paused. Mr. Butler was unlikely to interrupt her for anything less than an emergency—he mind flew to Dot, due with the first Collins child in a month or so, and Aunt Prudence was not as young as she had once been… Well, panicking was hardly going to be productive. She extracted herself from the delightful young man, promising to be back in a moment, and padded over to the closed door, adjusting the strap of her chemise as she did so. Her actual dress was… somewhere, but it wouldn’t take more than a moment to deal with the matter and finding it would be more trouble than it was worth.

Cracking the door open and ducking her head around, she saw Mr. B holding a robe, and a foreboding tremor struck her.

“Yes?”

“You’re required in the kitchen, miss.”

“Wh—”

“Miss.”

Phryne took the robe with trepidation, knowing that Mr. Butler would never interrupt, and certainly not so firmly, without good reason. She quickly donned the robe and smoothed her hair, stepping into the corridor and following her butler into the kitchen. Two steps inside the door she froze.

“Jack?” she asked, taking in the rain-soaked figure sitting at the table. “What are you…?”

He fiddled with his teacup, the delicate bone china engulfed by his hands. Hands she still dreamt about, on nights when she was particularly lonely.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice low and resigned. She knew the tone well, even if she hadn’t heard it in nearly a year. “I wouldn’t have come here, but I need your help.”

“I’ll—be a moment,” she said. “Mr. Butler, if you could see that the inspector gets a meal?”

Her butler inclined his head, already pulling out a saucepan. Phryne hesitated for a second longer, feeling strangely untethered, then returned to the parlour. Joe was still where she’d left him—and even in her turmoil she had to appreciate the strong lines of his body against the fur throw.

“Phryne, are you well?” he asked, sitting up with an expression of concern.

“I’m ever so sorry,” she said, smiling apologetically, “but there’s been a… family emergency. Would you like me to call you a taxi?”

Joe stood. “No, no, I’ll take care of myself,” he said, retrieving his hat and coat from the peg. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help you?”

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “If you hurry, the Green Mill will still be open.”

Joe kissed her cheek and left, and Phryne found herself pressing her forehead against the solid wood of her front door when it closed behind him. She wondered whether to redress, but it was hardly as if Jack hadn’t seen her in less that a robe before, and it was warmer than her still-damp clothing. So she belted the robe tighter and headed back into the kitchen, steeling herself for whatever was to come.

The still-discernible sound of rainfall reminded her of London, days when they had barely left the bed and days when they had braved the particularly foul winter to go dancing or to the theatre or sightsee at London’s many museums and galleries. But that was in the past, and it did no good to dwell on it.

Mr. Butler was making cocoa when she returned, and a tin of biscuits lay open but untouched on the table. If her stomach could have dropped any further it would have, but anatomical improbability prevented it and she simply helped herself to the proffered snack.

“You’re…” _looking well_ , she wanted to say, but found herself trailing off.

He spoke at the same time. “I take it I interrupted…?”

Phryne tugged at her robe, wishing she’d redressed after all.

“Nothing important,” she said, looking up at Mr. Butler as he set two mugs of cocoa onto the table. “That will be all, thank you.”

Mr. B left with a deferential head bob, and Phryne looked at Jack again. He looked defeated; it was a hard word to reconcile with the man she knew. She raised her mug to her mouth and blew to cool the steaming milk, uncertain what to say.

“I…” he began, eyes firmly focused on the wooden table top. “I would like to hire you.”

“Hire me?”

“For a case.”

“That’s most unusual, Jack. Usually it is the victims or their families that employ my services, not the police.”

“I’m aware.”

Silence again.

“You know,” she said, desperate to say something. “It’s been an absolute nightmare, training up another officer.”

She had, in fact, gone through several with no success. Her most common ally in investigations at the moment was a journalist named Clifford Blackwell.

“I hear you’ve had much success with Sergeant Terrence from City Central.”

It wasn’t the same. Samuel Terrence was a good man, but he was no Jack Robinson.

“Some,” she said. “But he didn’t seem the type to brag.”

She was curious, but not certain she wanted to know. Jack raised a hand in acquiescence.

“The commissioner mentioned it,” Jack said. “He’s been trying to figure out why the station’s solve rate has dropped.”

She looked at him for a moment, stunned.

“That’s utter rot,” she finally said, and he grinned for the first time all evening.

“It is. But you almost believed it.”

“Only because I didn’t think you could be quite so wicked,” she laughed, taking another sip of cocoa. “So you’d like to hire me. Any particular reason?”

He took a deep breath, preparing himself to say something, then seemed to chicken out at the last moment.

“We should discuss—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Payment first.”

“No.”

“Phryne—”

“I don’t charge friends.”

His lips twisted. “But you do charge old friends.”

“I won’t take your money, and I think you’re avoiding the question rather than really quibbling.”

He attempted to arch an eyebrow, but the effect failed rather spectacularly.

“Jack,” she said softly. “Please.”

“It’s murder,” he said, “and I need you to clear the main suspect.”

“The main…” she murmured, brow furrowing. It took a moment to reach the correct conclusion, because the idea was so utterly absurd her mind rejected the possibility the first three times. “You?”

Jack nodded.

“We’ll need more than cocoa,” she said, standing up to head for the whiskey.

———

Jack examined the grain of the table while he waited for Phryne to return; part of him wanted to flee before she could, but in truth he was too tired to manage such a thing. He heard the soft patter of her shoeless feet in the corridor and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the conversation that was to come. He turned as she entered the kitchen, carrying two tumblers and a decanter of whiskey—for an instant he was in her flat in London, that first night when he’d been utterly exhausted by travel and lovemaking and she’d brought the whiskey to bed, laughing as they’d sipped from the bottle like teenagers stealing their parents’ liquor supply. He closed his eyes, feeling a small smile tug at the corner of his lips despite himself.

He heard her round the table and take a seat opposite him, and he opened his eyes. She was watching him, cautious but level. He scrubbed his hand over his face, wondering where to begin.

“A name?” she suggested gently, sensing his struggle.

“Alfred Montgomery.”

He had to give her credit—she barely blinked, just pouring him a drink.

“The key witness in Melbourne’s biggest opium bust,” she said as she capped the decanter. “I’ve been following it in the papers.”

“Yes.”

“Start at the beginning, then.”

“In February, after—” he winced. “After my return, Alfred Montgomery was arrested on several minor charges. He had information that could take down the biggest opium importers in Melbourne. We acted quickly and managed to dismantle the operation within six weeks.”

Phryne nodded. “It was over before I arrived home,” she said.

“I was buried in paperwork until June,” he said, unsure whether he was offering an explanation or an excuse. All he knew what that he’d known she’d returned—Collins had helpfully supplied that information, and after Jack’s glowered reply had deliberately avoiding mentioning it again—but here they were now.

“It’s all coming up in the courts now,” he said. “Two days ago, Alfred Montgomery was shot at his home, with a police-issued gun. Three days ago he rescinded his witness statements, claiming police coercion.”

“That hasn’t made it to the papers yet,” she remarked.

“No,” he said, lips twisting as he sipped his whiskey.

“And you’re a suspect?”

“It was my gun. I signed it out a week ago. Signed it back in six days ago, or so I thought. There’s no record in the log.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Jack,” she said, raising an eyebrow in question. “You suspect police interference?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

She let it lie, focusing on the facts of the case.

“Why did you have the gun?”

“I was going to arrest a suspect with a history of firearm offenses as long as his arm.”

A nod. “Perfectly logical. And you signed it in the next morning—”

“I thought I did. It was a late night and an early morning. It’s possible I didn’t.”

“Pshaw!” she said dismissively. “Why come to me?”

He smiled wryly. “Because you’d turn me in in a moment if I was actually guilty.”

Her smile was small and warm and so damn _knowing_ he wished he had never come.

“And the other reason?”

He sighed heavily. “Who else could I ask, Phryne? I can’t set my men on this—Collins has impending fatherhood, and…” he trailed off, not quite ready to admit the words crowding his throat. To his surprise, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“I’ll take the case, of course,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling his hand away. He drained the last of his whiskey and stood, clapping his hat onto his head. “I should leave.”

Suddenly the small kitchen felt claustrophobic, her kindness more than he deserved, everything wrong. He was never supposed to be there again. It was better for both of them that way. But she was looking him with such kindness—and he could not bear that kindness, given to people she’d taken under her aegis and not the equal partnership they had had, however briefly—and he needed to leave.

“Of course,” she said, walking with him to the kitchen door. “What will you do?”

He managed a small smile. “I’ll go to work. Keep doing my job.”

“It sounds lonely.”

He shrugged. “Until they decide to arrest me, there’s still a city to keep safe.”

Her lips parted, her hand coming up to tug at his lapel. Everything she wasn’t saying was in her eyes, and he wished he could not read her so easily. It was so easy to imagine taking her in his arms, kissing her the way he had longed to since he’d sailed away from London. But that wasn’t who they were any more.

“Good night, Miss Fisher.”

And with that, he slipped into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Phryne dressed in black trousers and a silver blouse and headed towards Clifford Blackwell’s small offices. He had let a room from Regina Charlesworth and occasionally wrote articles for Women’s Choice magazine, though his primary focus was on criminal investigations. He must have heard her approaching, because he peered over the rim of his glasses as she approached.

“You’re on the war path this morning,” he observed, smiling; the man was practically a blonde Adonis, not that Phryne was noticing at that moment. “New case?”

“I want everything you have about Alfie Montgomery,” she said. “Information about the opium case, personal details, which way he parts his hair and what he had for breakfast last week.”

“What’s this about?”

Phryne pressed her lips together.

“I’m not quite sure,” she hedged. “Something about the case isn’t adding up.”

“A source?”

“An old friend,” she replied absently, eyes scanning the office as if the information she required would leap off one of the laden shelves though sheer force of will.

“On the force?” he asked.

“Leave it, Cliff,” she said. “Right now we want to uncover the truth, and who may or may not set us off on this journey is entirely irrelevant.”

“I don’t think it is, Phry.”

She looked at him sharply and he shrugged.

“Something’s put the wind up you, and I’ve seen you stare down a murderer holding a gun.”

Phryne turned on her heel to close the office door, then crossed the room to lounge in a visitor’s chair.

“He’s dead.”

“Your friend?”

Damn, even the thought sent a chill through her.

“No, Alfie. Three days ago, shortly after he accused the Victorian Constabulary of coercing a confession,” she said. “I’ll need to know the initial arresting officer.”

“Just a moment,” Cliff said, crossing to some shelves and selecting a particular book. “I’ve been doing a write-up of the case, in my spare time. Here—” he rifled through the pages “—a Detective Inspector Robinson? Isn’t that the policeman you used to work with?”

Phryne muttered a curse she hadn’t thought of since her time in the war.

“Yes, that’s…” she utterly despised being lost for words, and waved her hand in irritation. “If nothing else, that tells me the confession wasn’t coerced.”

“You can never tell.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Jack—Inspector Robinson is many things, but not that.”

“There’s a lot of history here?”

“Novels worth,” Phryne said, biting the inside of her cheek against the onslaught of images filling her mind. “But he’s the most honest man I know, and utterly bound by his own moral code.”

“It could be a case of a small lie for the right reasons.”

“No. No, Cliff, that’s… believe me, it’s—just, believe me.”

Cliff nodded. “So what do we have? A dead man, a confession that was rescinded just as the cases go to trial, a mysterious friend…. It’s not much to go on.”

“No,” Phryne agreed, “but it’s a place to start. Can I have a look at your notes?”

“What’s mine is yours, Phry. You know that.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t. But of all the things Cliff could have said at that moment, that was by far the worst; she swallowed hard, remembering the night it had all gone wrong, the performance of _Measure for Measure_ and Jack’s borrowed words murmured against her skin—”Dear Phryne,” he had said, his lips tickling at her neck, “I have a motion much imports your good; whereto if you'll a willing ear incline, what's mine is yours and what is yours is mine…” “I’m no virginal Isabella,” she had laughed in response—and the argument that followed, both of them so certain they were right that they could not bear to be wrong.

She took the notes, blinking back the tears that filled her eyes.

———

Jack sat in his parlour, his notes spread before him as if they were puzzle pieces that could simply be slotted back together with the right movements. The actual reports and evidence were still at the station, of course—he could not risk removing them, not now—but his notebooks were his own to do what he’d like.

Admittedly, “reinvestigating a case before he was charged with murder” was not high on his list of desires, but it was a matter of necessity. At least Phr—Miss Fisher was on the case, even if things went poorly for him. He hadn’t wanted to pull her in, but he had been unable to see any alternative. If nothing else, she’d ensure that justice—for a certain value of justice—was done. Which was drearily fatalistic even for him, and he stood up to make himself a cup of tea.

The house was dark and quiet, his footsteps echoing as he made his way to the kitchen. Firing up the range, he went in search of of an evening snack. Finding some slightly stale bread, he began to toast it, then fried an egg. Lashings of marmalade for the toast then a second egg in the pan, and a memory of Phryne in the kitchen of her London flat, dressed in his shirt and dancing as she cooked breakfast at noon.

He burnt the egg, and doubled the tea leaves in the pot.

This wallowing was absurd. He’d been doing perfectly well—he’d missed her, of course, but he was doing perfectly well—and could have continued that arrangement quite happily if it wasn’t for this blasted case. He drained his tea quickly and poured a second cup, bringing it and his meal back into the parlour.

Taking out a new notebook, larger than the ones he carried during witness statements, he laid out the facts of the case once more: a timeline of events, the people involved and their connections to one another, any questions that had been left unanswered in the initial investigation. When he was done he tossed the pen aside and pinched the bridge of his nose—there was nothing there he hadn’t already known, and no clarity was to be found. He could pass the book to Phryne though, for her own investigations; it was entirely probable that she’d see a pattern he could not.

He missed her on his investigations, he missed her friendship and laughter and vibrancy, he missed what they had and what they could have been. He missed her, and he had no one to blame but himself. Lord, he really was milking this melancholy. Easier than facing potential police corruption targeted at him, he supposed, but hardly conducive to a peaceful life. He tidied up his notes and was headed to bed when the telephone rang. He paused and lifted the receiver.

“Jack Robinson.”

“Hello, Jack!” she said brightly; even now it was _she_ , as if there were no other women. “I know it’s ever so late, but I’ve run into a small complication and I was hoping you would be available to assist me with it?”

“Please tell me you haven’t been arrested.”

She laughed.

“Nothing near that interesting, I’m afraid. I’m just reading over that manuscript you sent me—I never took you for an author, but it’s positively engrossing.”

She was such a force of nature it genuinely took a moment to catch up—concerned about the possibility of a switchboard operator listening in, she was doing her best to be vague. A pretense that was almost certainly unnecessary, but appreciated.

“How can I help you then, Miss Fisher?”

“Just before I reached the end I spilled my whiskey over the pages, and now they’re stuck together.”

She’d hit a roadblock in her investigation then. He thought of the book of notes he’d just completed, and smiled despite himself. Clearly there were still some things they could manage together.

“I’ll get another copy to you later this week,” he said, then sighed. “I really do appreciate you using your publishing contacts.”

“Any time, Jack.”

Her voice was warm and kind and so _Phryne_ he couldn’t help but love her all over again.

“I should… I was heading to bed,” he fumbled. “I’ll drop the manuscript off when I have a chance, though.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

The worst part was, he knew she meant it; it just wasn’t enough.

———

It had taken two days of very delicate manuevering—Phryne knew she could have contacted Hugh and had it all sorted in ten minutes, but if Jack was right about police involvement she’d rather keep both of the Collinses out of it entirely—but eventually Phryne found herself with access to the Russell Street evidence room for the twenty minutes the police officer assigned to it was at lunch.

Alfie Montgomery’s death had finally made the newspapers, though the article was buried on the third page and very little was made of how he’d died. That boded well, in Phryne’s opinion—it might lend itself to accusation of a cover-up, but at least Jack wasn’t being hounded by the press or suspended by the force. She’d spoken to him briefly on the telephone the night before, to arrange another meeting so she could clarify some details of the investigation, but hadn’t actually seen him. A fact she was pettily thankful for; she had a case to solve, and he already took up too much of her mental landscape. Finding the correct box, she pulled on her gloves and slid it off the shelf.

There wasn’t much inside—a few personal belongings, the recovered gun, some photographs of the scene and reports, and the leather-bound log embossed with the Victoria Police Force crest. She flipped it open, scouring the records, her hand trailing down the page until she found it.

_Out — 26 July 12pm — Jack Robinson — S &W 14527_

There was no corresponding entry for the gun’s return. Two more entries for the 26th, three for the 27th—and she checked that each of those guns were accounted for in the log, then they were on to the 28th. It was definitely Jack’s handwriting, and there was no sign of tampering on the pages as far as she could see. Well, that was inconvenient. Still, better to rule out the obvious answers so she could find the truth.

Rifling through the box one last time without success, she returned the items to the box and placed it back on the shelf. She wasn’t quite sure what her next step would be—attempting to investigate without tipping off the police was not a skill she had particularly cultivated, finding it far more entertaining to drive right over them—but she was certain she would figure it out. Perhaps she ought to nose around Alfie Montgomery’s known associates, the ones that weren’t in gaol already.

Walking quickly towards the exit, she paused as an officer entered.

“Miss Fisher!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

It took a moment to place the man—Bartholomew Charles, Bartie to his friends. They’d worked together shortly after she’d returned to Melbourne six months earlier, on a case of missing jewels. She smiled at him brightly.

“Bartie, darling!” she exclaimed. “I was just looking for the man minding the desk. I had a minor little detail to check about our case—I have a new client who was telling my about some jewelry that went missing over the summer, and it sounded just like our man’s modus operandi. I thought perhaps I could have a quick look at where he was at the time?”

He looked at her assessingly, and Phryne smiled wider and didn’t look away. Eventually he nodded.

“I think the constable is on his lunch break, but I can show you the way,” he said, nodding towards one of the rows of shelves. “It’s just over here.”

Phryne followed him, thankful for her improvisational skills. The last thing she needed was rumours tying her to this investigation.


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearing midnight two days later when Jack found himself on a familiar St. Kilda street, and he glanced around before quickly making his way up the back garden path to the kitchen door of Wardlow. He planned to knock on the back door—there were still lights on, so he was certain someone would hear—and then retreat, leaving the package wrapped in brown paper and string behind.

Unfortunately for him, Phryne Fisher had other plans.

“Must you skulk?” she asked, opening the door before he had a chance to knock.

“How…”

She held up a mug. “Warm milk before bed. I saw no reason to wake Mr. Butler.”

“Not even when there was a lurking figure outside the window?” he asked wryly.

“Especially not then,” she volleyed back with a smile, then stepped aside. “Come in, Jack. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I only came by to drop this off.”

He held up the package, which she looked at but did not reach for.

“Nonsense,” she said firmly instead, gesturing him inside. “Come have a drink. And whatever possessed you to come around the back like the grocer’s boy?”

Too exhausted to play games, Jack followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. He removed his hat, worrying it in his hands, remembering the night she’d given it to him; he hadn’t been certain whether there was enough middle ground between them to make a go of it. That leap had come later, and while it hadn’t gone the way he had hoped, he found he didn’t regret it. He sat the hat aside and looked up to meet her steady, slightly sleepy gaze.

“I was suspended today.”

She exhaled sharply, her eyes genuinely sad.

“Then they are bigger fools than I gave them credit for.”

Her loyalty did not alter the facts, but it certainly made him feel better.

“I’m not sure what else they could do—”

“Not suspend their best detective on spurious evidence, for starters.”

“Hardly spurious, Phryne. I had the gun. I had motive. I live alone, so I have no alibi.”

Her lips tightened at the last point, and what neither one said hung in the air all the same. Jack looked away first.

“I never should have asked you to get involved—”

“Jack! What else were you going to do? Run off to the middle of the outback? Become a cowboy like one of your novels? You could join a circus, I suppose. How’s your juggling?”

He shook his head, ignoring her attempts to tease him into a better mood. “I shouldn’t have involved you, but it’s too late now. I’m not going to dwell on it. But I’m not waltzing up to your door in broad daylight either; I might as well draw a target on it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Really, must you be so dramatic?”

“I think you’ll find I’m being entirely practical,” he said stiffly.

“You’re borrowing trouble.”

_Again_ , he heard though she did not add. Anger flashed in him.

“I’m not, Miss Fisher. What I’m trying to do is keep you out of the worst of it.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“I’m not offering,” he countered. “This is purely a matter of self-preservation. If I want any chance of keeping my job, I need you to prove my innocence.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she stood up.”Well, I’ll need more than you’ve given me if I’m to do that.”

Jack pushed the package across the table. “Everything I have on the investigation. I can’t see anything, but…”

Sighing, Phryne picked it up, hooking her finger beneath the string. She rubbed the twine with her thumb, then looked up at him.

“Jack…” her mouth twisted as she fought for something to say; there was something perversely unsatisfying in knowing he could render her speechless. “It won’t last. I promise.”

He ran a hand over his mouth. “Honestly, Miss Fisher… regardless of what you prove, it may very well be too late for my reputation, and without my reputation…”

He pushed back from the table and stood, redonning his hat and heading towards the kitchen door without finishing the thought. Some things didn’t get a second chance, no matter how much you wanted it.

———

When Jack had left, Phryne warmed the milk as she had planned—then added a splash of whiskey, which she had not—and carried the package to her boudoir. Curled in her bed, she unwrapped the paper to find a book containing all the notes Jack had on the case. She spent two hours reading through, checking her own notes for inconsistencies. Alfred Montgomery, opium ring, a successful raid against the biggest importers; it was perfect publicity for the force, which had been riddled with multiple corruption scandals in the last few years, from kick-backs to cover-ups to George Sanderson’s complicity in human slavery. ‘Neat and convenient, but genuine’ was Jack’s assessment of the case, and she found herself wishing—not for the first time—that they had found another way, one that kept him in her parlour and her bed. ( _In her life_ , insisted her inner self, and she threw herself back into reading before it could take root.)

She had almost reached the end on the book when she noticed Jack’s 2, and blinked. Then stood up, retrieving a wooden box from her wardrobe and extracting the correspondence therein. Bracing herself, she opened the first—dated September 15th, 1929—and compared the shape of the numbers. There was the same tiny uptick of the tail of the two, and the following notes—messages Jack had written on the ship or in London—had it as well.

The log, Phryne realised, had not.

Folding and replacing each letter without reading their contents—she could probably recite each one by memory, but would really rather not test that theory—she considered this new detail. Jack’s scrawl was too erratic to be easily mimicked, but it wasn’t impossible. It was the first concrete proof that police officers might be complicit in this, and that was worth a great deal more than just suspicions, no matter how well-founded. She’d get Clifford on it in the morning.

Padding back to the wardrobe, she went to replace the box of letters. Her thumb caressed the latch, and she found herself flipping the lid open once more, taking out one of the envelopes.

> September 15th, 1929
> 
> Phryne,
> 
> _I am two fools, I know,_  
>  _For loving, and for saying so_  
>  _In whining poetry_
> 
> It is, perhaps, with foolish hope that I write to you now. My telegraph will have arrived, and been responded to, and arrangements confirmed or deferred as the situation warrants, well before this letter ever reaches you. But still I put pen to paper. To confess that I love you, that I will follow you if you truly meant it, that I have a steamer trunk packed and arrangements made for my house and my job while I am away. The commissioner is not pleased, even though I have evaded the worst truths of the matter. (Worst, I say, as if your offer is not the most welcome I have ever received.) I would say that you have bewitched me, but I have gone in with my eyes open—you have never asked for anything less, never sang the siren’s song to lure unwitting men to crash upon your shores. It is with this same honesty that I repeat: yes, I will come. A thousand times, my love, if that is what it takes.
> 
> Rather happily yours,
> 
> Jack

She reread the words that had made the long weeks of waiting for him bearable, and the long weeks after his departure so incomprehensible. Refolding the paper and placing it in the drawer, she shut it silently and padded back to her empty bed.

———

Phryne arrived at Clifford’s offices mid-morning, Jack’s notebook secured in a large handbag. She wasn’t certain she was ready to share it with the journalist just yet, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave it at home; overly cautious, perhaps, but she wasn’t going to second-guess herself. Cliff was seated at his desk, typing something, and looked up when he heard her arrival.

“Phryne, darling,” Cliff said affably. “Back again?”

Phryne closed the office door and took a seat.

“Have you made any progress, Cliff?”

“Not much,” he replied. “All the evidence is pointing back to that detective inspector you refuse to consider.”

She reached up to fiddle with the brooch on her scarf, a terribly sentimental action she’d been unable to resist. The blue stones had caught the light that morning and she’d taken it from the jewelry box, intending to tuck it out of sight, and found herself wearing it instead.

“What sort of evidence?”

“I’ve spoken with a witness who shared a cell with Alfie shortly after his initial arrest. He claims Alfie had a split lip and mentioned police coercion then—it’s not a new accusation.”

“No.”

“Phryne.”

“Did he mention Jack specifically?”

Clifford nodded.

“There you are, then! A minor injury that’s clearly visible, accusations of coercion, and a name? Isn’t that far too neat to be believed?”

She hated how shrill her voice was, more emotion than logic behind it. It would not be persuasive.

“It’s hardly an earth-shattering story, Phry. The police force has a reputation for a reason—”

“I know Jack’s reputation,” Phryne countered, “and I know _Jack_. There is no way on this earth… there’s no way.”

Raking a hand through his hair, Clifford sighed. “Phryne, you’ve clearly not wanted to talk about… whatever happened between you and Jack Robinson, and I’ve been happy to let that lie. But the man left the country just before this went down, and I have no idea how he could afford that on a policeman’s salary. There are multiple witnesses. A man is dead, Phryne. I need more than you assertions he couldn’t have done it.”

“He was with me.”

“The night of the murder?”

“No. No, when he left the country… he was in London. With me. We…” Phryne found herself swallowing against a lump in her throat. “We were quite amorously engaged, one might say, if they were being delicate.”

“And are you often delicate?” Clifford asked archly. “That seems quite a journey, even for a woman as charming as you.”

“He’s quite the man,” Phryne smiled sadly. “But there’s no way, Cliff. I understand why you’re suspicious, but I promise you: Jack Robinson is innocent.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” Phryne said without hesitation.

Clifford mulled this over, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he thought.

“The newspapers are starting to get wind of this story,” he finally said, “and they have a lot less faith in your policeman than you do.”

“Well, they’re wrong.”

“Be that as it may…”

Phryne touched the swallow pin once more. She knew—if this story gained traction, the truth would hardly matter. The irony of this in light of their failed romance did not escape her.

“Is there anything you can do?”

Cliff shrugged, then looked at Phryne with something that bordered on pity. It was not a familiar feeling, and she resented the way it twisted her gut.

“I’ll place a few telephone calls,” he said. “If I can give the impression that I’m about to make a major discovery and need this kept quiet… well, there’s no guarantees. But I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Phryne said, rising from her chair. “For everything, really, but this especially.”

He gave a small smile and winked, and she felt a rush of affection for her friend.

“I do expect the scoop when this is done.”

Phryne laughed. “Darling, you can have the whole ice cream parlour.”


	4. Chapter 4

Phryne was enjoying a fresh pot of tea and scones and rereading Jack’s notebook—again, and the futility was getting tedious—when there was a knock on the door.

“Good afternoon,” came Mr. Butler’s voice from the hall, louder than necessary, and Phryne was immediately on edge.

She quickly tucked the notebook beneath a cushion and reclined against it, appearing at her leisure. A moment later there was a knock at the parlour door, and Mr. Butler entered.

“Miss Fisher,” he said with a small bow, a slight tension to his demeanor that Phryne was certain nobody else would notice. “Sergeant Terrance and Inspector Lawson for you, from City Central.”

“Send them in, Mr. B!” she said lightly. “And perhaps some of that chocolate cake you had set aside for dinner this evening?”

“Very well, miss.”

Mr. Butler left and was replaced by two men. Phryne knew Sergeant Terrance—he was a heavyset man in his early fifties with a jolly manner and razor-sharp instincts she had worked with several times—which meant the blonde man with an improbably thick mustache would be Inspector Lawson.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she said. “How can I help you today?”

“Miss Fisher, we have some questions for you, about your association with Jack Robinson.”

Phryne arched an eyebrow and said nothing for a moment, stretching it to near snapping point, then gestured to the chairs.

“Please, take a seat,” she said. “Jack Robinson, you say? I’ll be quite happy to answer any questions that you have, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen him in months.”

Terrance looked surprised, but Lawson nodded. She wasn’t sure which one response she trusted less.

“You were quite close at one point, I believe?” Lawson said, sitting down; his pose was relaxed, but deceptively so. Terrance seemed genuinely at ease, at least.

“We were,” Phryne replied. There was no use denying it, though the implication that they weren’t any longer was surprisingly difficult to make. “We overlapped on multiple cases, and became friends.”

“ _Just_ friends, Miss Fisher?”

“I’m aware of my reputation, inspector. Inspector Robinson was always a consummate professional when we investigated the same cases.”

“I’m not sure that answers my question.”

“I’m not sure it’s your business,” Phryne replied sharply. “What is this regarding?”

Lawson ignored her, flipping open a notebook with practiced deliberation; really, if they hoped to intimidate her, they could do a better job.

“When was the last time you spoke with Inspector Robinson?”

“Some time before I returned from England at Easter,” she said levelly.

“Can you be more specific?”

“We last worked together in September of last year, if that’s of interest,” she said, then looked them both over coolly. “But I suspect what you really want to know is if our paths crossed while we were both in London. The answer to that is yes—he accompanied me to several events, in fact, as well as visiting some friends from his army days, and he departed for Melbourne in early January. However, I don’t think you’d ask if you didn’t know, which means you want something else from me.”

“We’re merely trying to construct a timeline of events,” Lawson said smoothly.

“What for?”

“Concerns have been raised over his recent investigations.”

Phryne gave a smile that was more bared teeth than joy.

“Well, as I’ve said, we haven’t worked together in nearly a year. I’m afraid I can be absolutely no help on that front,” she said, standing in clear dismissal. “If, however, you’d like a review of the London theatre scene around last year’s Christmas season, I’m sure I have some ticket stubs that would be enlightening. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Lawson coughed but did not move, and Phryne pursed her lips in a disapproving moue.

“Shall I have Mr. Butler show you out?” she asked sweetly. “Or are you capable of finding the door without assistance?”

Lawson blustered slightly, and Phryne twisted the knife.

“It’s no trouble. Mr. Butler!”

Lawson stood, attempting to be nonchalant but moving just a bit too quickly. Phryne’s smile was much more genuine this time, and she followed him to the parlour door and watched him leave. Sergeant Terrance held back slightly, and when he drew level with with Phryne, he paused.

“There’s been quite a bit made about your connection to Inspector Robinson,” he said quietly. “Not all of it positive.”

Phryne looked at him levelly.

“When it comes to rumours, sergeant, I find it best to confirm the true, enjoy the absurd, and ignore the rest.”

Terrance nodded, then glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure Lawson was not in earshot.

“All the same,” he murmured, “I certainly hope you’ve not been spending your time in Riversfell.”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” she asked.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Miss Fisher, but a woman looking for answers might.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” she said.

Terrance nodded and left, and Phryne shut the door behind him, leaning against the wooden frame as she tried to insert this development into the information she had. A lead from a man who thought Jack Robinson innocent? An irresistible lure for a curious detective? She was still mulling it over when she heard a noise and looked up; Mr. Butler was carrying a tray of tea and cake.

“No need for that now,” she said wearily.

“Very well, miss. I’ll set it aside for this evening, shall I? I suspect we’ll have another late night visitor.”

Phryne smiled weakly. “So do I, Mr. B. So do I.”

———

Jack was eating dinner at his kitchen table, scouring the newspaper for any developments in Alfie’s death or the opium case, when there was a knock at the door. Shovelling the last of his omelette into his mouth and pulling on his suit jacket—he might be suspended from the job, but he was still working and insisted on dressing so—and went to answer it. It was Hugh, shifting uncomfortably.

“Collins.”

“Sir.”

A pause, then Jack stepped aside.

“No use standing on the stoop,” he said, gesturing Collins inside. “What can I do for you?”

Hugh removed his helmet, shifting it from hand to hand. “I was wondering, sir, where the files for the Alders robbery were?”

“I imagine they are filed under ‘A’, Collins,” Jack said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course, sir,” said Hugh. “I suppose those two officers from City Central poking around your office drove it quite out of my mind.”

Ahh, that was why he was there. Jack shook his head—he’d tried to keep his men out of this, especially Collins, but their loyalty was not so easily dissuaded.

“Were they now?”

“Yes, sir. Inspector Lawson and Sergeant… Terrance? Asked the men some questions, but I don’t think they found what they were looking for. Last I heard they were at Miss Fisher’s.”

Jack nodded.

“It’s a good thing you’re staying out of it,” he said. “How is Mrs. Collins?”

If the image of an eight-months-pregnant Dot Collins didn’t put the fear of god into Hugh, nothing would. His senior constable simply looked at him levelly, however.

“Doing well, sir. Keeps insisting the babe better arrive early rather than late, because she’s sick to death of only baking when I’m home to put things in the oven,” he said cheerfully, then added. “That’s how I learnt they’d visited Miss Fisher.”

Touché.

“Give her my regards,” Jack said. “I’m sure you have plenty to get back to. On the Alders robbery.”

Hugh nodded, and turned to take the few steps to the door. His hand was on the knob when Jack spoke.

“And thank you, Collins.”

Hugh didn’t turn, merely ducked his head in acknowledgment, then left.

Jack sighed—it seemed another visit to the Fisher residence was in order.

———

Phryne was waiting in the kitchen when he arrived.

“What did I say about the back door?” she asked, turning her back to put the kettle on.

“Phryne—”

“I know, you clearly know better than I do,” she said tartly. “Can’t let people _talk_.”

“What did Lawson and Terrance have to say?” he asked, ignoring the barb and taking a seat at the table. A chocolate cake was set in the middle, along with two plates and a serving knife.

“Just the usual,” Phryne said, voice deliberately flippant. “They were nosing around to see if I’d heard from you.”

He’d known, of course, but he’d hoped for another explanation. Running a hand over his mouth, he sighed.

“What did you tell them?”

“That I hadn’t, of course.”

“And?”

“And that whether or not we had been… intimate friends was none of their damned business.”

“Subtle.”

“They weren’t exactly subtle themselves, and with any luck it put their focus elsewhere,” she said, turning to look at him with a small smile. “Sometimes the rumours can do the unpleasant work for me.”

“I never should have asked you to get involved.”

“This again, Jack? I am quite capable of deciding whether or not to ‘get involved’ in matters like this. Or any other matters, really.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Her jaw clenched.

“No, I don’t know that, Jack. All I know is that you are so preoccupied with your reputation and mine that—” she threw her hands in the air, and turned away again. “Do you still take sugar in your tea?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, laying out a sugar bowl and milk jug with the cups she already had on the tray, then measured out the leaves for the teapot. For several moments the only sound was the clatter of dishes as she made tea.

“I should turn myself in.”

She whirled on him, anger flashing in her eyes.

“Turn yourself in?” she scoffed. “You’re not a fugitive from the law, Jack. They don’t have enough to arrest you because you didn’t do it. Their suppositions are not your guilt!”

“With enough belief, evidence becomes entirely secondary,” he shot back.

“Even supposing you’re right—and I am not saying you are—what possible good could it do? They send you to gaol until get their heads out of their asses and discover the truth?”

“There are still good men on the force, Phryne.”

“This has nothing to do with the quality of the men, Jack! What do you think happens to police officers in gaols? You sneak around my back door at midnight because it might cause people to talk, but you’re apparently satisfied to throw yourself in harm’s way with no reason.”

“Well, being cautious hasn’t done me any favours.”

The teaspoon in her hand clattered to the table as her brow furrowed and she strode towards the door.

“Phryne—”

He caught her arm as she passed, the sudden contact startling them both, and she pulled it away.

“I don’t want to hear it, Jack,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She seemed to give herself a mental shake, or perhaps don a facade; he hoped it was not the latter, no matter how much he deserved it.

“Yes, well, you can’t change the past,” she said. “There’s no point in dwelling on it when we could be cracking this case wide open before you do something foolish like get yourself arrested.”

“That is more your habit,” he said, giving her a small smile despite himself.

“Usually it’s just the threat of arrest,” she replied.

“Almost as bad.”

She laughed softly, for just a moment their connection what it had always been. “What do you know about Riversfell?”

“It’s a small farm about an hour outside of Melbourne,” he replied. “Belonged to the family of one of our importers, Robert Higgins, but I don’t think anyone lives there now. Why?”

“Sergeant Terrance mentioned it,” she said. “It might be a trap, but…”

Jack nodded.

“There’s some good fishing that way,” he said. “Might as well make some use of my suspension.”

“That does seem like a good idea,” she agreed. “Have some cake.”

Jack cut two slices and they had their cake and tea in a comfortable silence. When he was done, Phryne followed him to the back door.

“I’ll telephone if I find anything,” he said.

She nodded, then reached up to brush something from his shoulder. “Be careful.”

“I thought that was the problem, Miss Fisher.”

She laughed, sadness lingering at the corners of her lips. “Promise me.”

He took her hand in his, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

Jack came to in a small room, a bitter taste on his tongue that made him suspect he’d been drugged and his arms and legs binding him to the chair. He ran his groggy mind over the last few days—the lead from Terrance, clearly a trap now; a few days at the local boarding house while he poked around when he could, and fished when he could not; brief telephone calls to Phryne in the evenings, where neither of them could say anything honest. His last memory was sitting down with a cup of tea at the boarding house, but little else. 

As far as wake-ups went, this was one for the record books.

He took stock of his surroundings as best he could—there was a window that might be breakable, but as he couldn’t see a way to get free of the chair it was currently a moot point. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there—it was mid-afternoon when he’d taken his tea, and it was raining and dark outside now, but other than that his internal clock was useless. He wondered about his watch, but jiggled his arms enough to realise it was still in place. Good. He hadn’t been without that watch in over a decade, and its presence was reassuring.

Eventually a man came into the room to see if Jack was conscious; it took Jack a moment to place him. Sergeant Bartholomew Charles, Bartie to his friends. Jack was not a friend. He also wasn’t going to give the man the courtesy of rank.

“Charles.”

“Robinson.”

The man took a seat in the chair opposite Jack, looking at him in evaluation.

“Are you lonely?”

Jack scoffed. “No, the company here is so great I would almost forget that I’m being held hostage by a dirty copper.”

“Now Jack, don’t be like that. I’ve brought you a friend—word is you two were quite close, once upon a time. Never did have much use for her help myself, but maybe it wasn’t help you were interested in.”

Bartie smiled, a lewd little expression that made Jack want to hit him. He kept his composure, even as the man stood once more and strode to the door, returning a moment later with Phryne, who was bound with rope and had a sack over her head. Bartie quickly pushed her towards the chair, tying her arms and legs to it before removing the sack. Somehow her bob wasn’t even rumpled.

“Big boss man wants to talk to you both,” he said. “Why don’t I leave you two lovebirds to figure out what lies you’re going to tell? It will make the truth so much more satisfying.”

And with that, he left again. As the door shut behind Bartie, Jack studied Phryne for any signs of injury. She appeared more irritated than concerned however, and after a moment he spoke.

“Miss Fisher.”

It’s a ridiculous formality under the circumstances, but it made her smile. And as absurd as the thought was, Jack could not help but feel that as long as Phryne Fisher was smiling, life would never be that bad.

“Hello, Jack,” she said. “I’m pleased to see that I wasn’t the only one taken by surprise.”

A nod of understanding. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride. You would think that my driving would naturally deter any attempts at tailing me, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” he agreed.

Another pause as she shifted in her chair, brow furrowed.

“It’s no use,” she eventually said. “I am going to ask a favour from you that is so contrived I’d almost think I’d set it up this way.”

Jack arched an eyebrow in curiosity and she rolled her eyes, then flicked them down to her lap.

“My dagger.”

Jack scoffed a laugh.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Well, if you have a better idea…”

“No, I meant—he didn’t search you?”

Phryne pulled a look that was almost offended.

“It was appalling,” she said. “You would think with my reputation he’d have thought to look, but apparently people aren’t as fixated on the state of my garters as I once presumed.”

“Lucky for us.”

This time her smile was a twist of her lips, but she quickly moved past it.

“Do you think you could maneuver your chair closer?” she asked, and Jack set to work doing just that.

It was slow going, made slower by his attempts to be quiet, but eventually his chair was directly in front of hers, his back facing her to put his hands into reach.

“You’re going to have to guide me,” he said quietly. “You ready?”

“Well, this is hardly the Windsor,” she said with surprising lightness, “but I suppose it will do.”

Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. Instead he moved his hand as best he could, catching the edge of her skirt and flipping it up enough to get his fingers beneath. It was funny—on one hand the feel of her warm skin beneath his fingertips, the line where the silk of her stocking became flesh, all of it was so familiar that a longing stirred in him; on the other, there was nothing erotic about his fumbled attempts to find the dagger, or the careful shuffling they engaged in as they both attempted to not only reach the dagger but free it from the garter. Eventually they succeeded, and Jack gripped the handle of the dagger as he tried to decide what to do—if they could get the chairs back to back, he could cut through Phryne’s bonds first, and the angle would be easier than on his own; on the other hand, cutting his own bonds first would make it easier to avoid cutting wrists. The decision was made for him when they heard a noise from outside the door.

“Oi! Let us out!” shouted Phryne, rattling her chair.

The noise was enough to give Jack cover; stuffing the dagger up his sleeve as best he could, he jumped his chair back into the rough position it had started in, and hoped that they had enough to bluff their way through Bartie’s visit.

The door open and Bartie stepped through, looking at Phryne and Jack with a sneer.

“I hope you’re comfortable. Big Boss Man won’t be here until the morning.”

“Did you tell Judge Smythe we said hello?” Jack asked; it was a diversion, but mostly he just felt like giving Bartie shit.

Bartie stepped forward, landing a punch square on Jack’s jaw; colours flashed before Jack’s eyes at the impact, but he quickly blinked them away and smiled.

“Thank you for the confirmation.”

“You think you’re clever, Robinson?” Bartie said. “You’re a dead man.”

“Yes, yes,” Phryne piped up. “We’re both quaking in our impeccable footwear. Are those new shoes, Jack?”

“New enough,” he replied, subtly working his jaw to take away some of the ache. “There was an incident in Columbo with sand on my way home.”

“They suit you.”

Her eyes were sparkling with mirth despite their situation, and Jack found himself smiling back at her. He had missed this. Well, not this specifically—being held hostage was not something he had made a habit of, even with Phryne Fisher’s influence—but working together, the easiness of their back-and-forth, the understanding… he shut down the train of thought quickly. Foolish, foolish thing to do.

“We’ll try not to get blood on them, Robinson, save your family the cost of replacing the shoes for your funeral.”

If Bartie kept this up, Jack was in real danger of forgetting how precarious their position was. The man’s threats were straight out of pulp fiction. Which would make the hardboiled detective and Phryne the femme fatale, and really neither of them suited the roles. Best to keep his mind on the reality of the situation.

“How considerate Bartie,” Jack said dryly. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Bartie shook his head.

“You always were up yourself, Robinson,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And with that, he turned and left, the external bolt sliding in place behind him.

———

After Bartie had left, Phryne looked at Jack.

“Was that the wisest thing to do?” she asked, and he snorted.

“Definitely not,” he replied. “Satisfying though.”

That untameable curl that always appeared when Jack was flustered lay against his forehead, and Phryne felt a surge of tenderness at his rebellious nature.

“What was that about Judge Smythe?”

“Oh, uhh, the boarding house I was staying at was run by a Emma Smythe, same spelling. She had some family photographs on the wall, and I happened to recognise one of the judges from Melbourne, standing next to the owner of our Riversfell. Which I suspect is our current fine abode." 

Phryne nodded in agreement. 

"Turns out Judge Smythe is the landlady's brother," Jack continued, "and he grew up with our main importer, Higgins.”

“Ahh. So old-friends-turned-business-partners.”

“And Smythe was in a perfect position to deal with crooked cops.”

“Like Bartie,” she said, and Jack nodded.

“How did he…?”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “When I didn’t hear from you tonight I decided to drive up. Police car pulled me over—I thought it was about my speed, which was really almost sensible given the weather—but as he approached the Hispano, I recognised him. He was there the day I went looking for the evidence. We’d worked together, I didn’t think anything of it…” she scowled, remembering the sinking horror when she realised what was happening. Her voice was far less level then she would have liked when she continued. “I had no reason to be suspicious of him.”

“I’d heard things,” Jack admitted. “But nothing that would—I’m sorry.”

“I don’t see how this could be your fault, Jack.”

“I should have…” he trailed off helplessly, far from the confident Jack she’d known before.

“What about Smythe?” Phryne asked, determined not to dwell.

Jack sighed. “I suspect he was in control of the legal side of things—contact with the cops on the street, lenient sentencing, that sort of thing.”

There were a number of choice words that sprung to mind, but nothing that would help their current situation.

“How are the ropes coming?”

“I’ve managed to get the dagger back in my hands and started, but don’t expect it to be quick.”

“I’m sure you’ll be out of it before I can say Jack Robinson.”

He rolled his eyes at her joke. “I’ve definitely never heard that one before, Miss Fisher.”

She pouted. “And here I was, saving it for something particularly clever.”

He tilted his head just so, and her hand jerked against her bonds as if to touch him. An instinctual response, quickly covered up, and then she waited. Time passed, the chill of the room going through Phryne’s thin outfit; she regretted leaving her driving coat in the Hispano, not that it had been under her control. Rain landed on the tin roof, the only sound aside from the occasional update on Jack’s progress. He was almost through his bonds when Bartie showed up again. This time they feigned submission, a pretense that would only work on a man as determined to underestimate her as Bartie was. When he was gone, Jack sawed through the last of the ropes with a wince, then freed his legs before moving on to Phryne.

Phryne stood, moving her limbs to get the blood flowing once more.

“Do we want to fight our way out?” she asked, eyes scanning the room for makeshift weaponry.

Jack shook his head. “There’s no way of knowing if he’ll be back this evening, and I don’t fancy our chances against two of them come morning.”

“The window, then.”

It was small, filthy, and liable to make a lot of noise when it was broken. The rain from earlier in the evening had abated, reducing their cover.

“It’s a risk,” he said, but it was not a genuine protest.

She gave him a smile, hoping her false bravado was contagious. “Always is.”

He nodded, handing back her dagger. Phryne caught his hand, turning it palm up; he’d scraped his wrists as he’d sawed through the ropes, but the damage wasn’t too bad. She grazed her thumb over them anyway, then shook herself and released his hands in order to return the dagger to her garter. He’d shrugged off his coat, wrapping it around one fist in an attempt to muffle the noise and protect himself from the glass.

“I want you to go through first,” Jack said, raising his free hand to cut off her protests. “It’s a matter of logistics, Miss Fisher. If the window breaking tips him off, you are smaller and faster. At least one of us will get out this way.”

“So you’d sacrifice yourself?” she asked, half-teasing and half… not.

His smile was wry and honest and Jack. “I’m relying on you to bring in the cavalry so I won’t have to.”

She nodded, careful not to think too carefully about who the cavalry would be in this case, given the high-reaching corruption.

“Let’s do this.”


	6. Chapter 6

The window smashed on the second hit, the sound thankfully muffled, and Phryne didn't even look back before vaulting out the window. Jack pulled his coat back on and paused, listening for signs their captor had heard them. Nothing, so Jack quickly followed Phryne, landing in the mud outside. Crouching against the wall of the farmhouse, they quietly debated the best way to go; there was a long drive that would take them to the main road, but would provide no cover, so they decided to cut through the woods and hopefully come out to the road—a bigger risk, but Jack had a good sense of direction and Phryne, as she rightfully pointed out, had a remarkable ability to land on her feet. That settled, they moved as quickly as possible towards the tree line.

They had been travelling for nearly an hour. The evening air was cool, and while the rain had ceased the air itself was damp and droplets were still falling from the leaves above. In unfamiliar territory with their captor potentially minutes behind—there was, of course, the chance their escape would not be noticed until the morning, but Jack generally found that cynicism served him well when it came to staying alive—it was another complication they could do without.

Phryne was unusually quiet, and Jack kept glancing back to make sure she was keeping up. She was, picking her way through the mud in shoes that were clearly not meant for strenuous outdoor activity. Nor was the rest of her outfit—her skirt would hinder attempts at running, and a silk blouse did little against the elements. It hit him, really hit him, for the first time that she’d been caught unawares. _Bloody hell, Robinson_ , he thought, _you are an absolute coward some days_. She shouldn’t be there. She had been well out of it and he’d pulled her in, because he hadn’t wanted to face this alone. He sighed.

“Phryne—”

“Look, Jack!”

He turned; there was a small cut through the trees, no more than a slight footpath, and he could just make out the shape of a small hut in the dark.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. They’d have to stop and they needed sheltered, but if their captor was aware of the building it was the most obvious place to look.

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” she said to his unvoiced objections, setting off for the building without glancing back to see if he followed. He did, of course, and arrived only a step behind her.

The door had no lock, and she pushed it open and stepped inside. Jack wasn’t quite sure why it was there—possibly built as temporary housing until something bigger could be built, but there was little evidence of recent occupation. There was a peg by the door where he hung his wet coat and hat, then glanced around the one-room hut—there were two chairs and a billy can, and a poker by the fireplace with a few logs stacked to the side. It was something, at least; enough to provide shelter until there was enough light to get their bearings, provided they weren’t tracked down before then. Phryne stood against the wall, arms drawn around her and shivering slightly. His own hands were chilled, and he rubbed them together briskly.

“We won’t be able to light a fire,” he said.

She smiled wryly.

“No, I imagine a smoking chimney would rather be like hanging out the welcome sign.”

“I’ll look for blankets,” he said, though a quick glance around the room told him there was nowhere to store them.

Phryne nodded and took a seat, and Jack paced the room as if a chest or cupboard would magically appear. It didn’t, and he eventually retreated to the second chair and stared at the empty fireplace. More corruption. He’d suspected—of course he had, he wasn’t some wet behind the ears fool with stars in his eyes—but he’d convinced himself on some level that he was wrong; that it was a misunderstanding, or his own mind pulling him towards Phryne at the first opportunity, or some complex plot of a faceless villain. But it wasn’t. It was his own people. Again. He scrubbed a hand over his face, barely registering that Phryne’s shivers had grown stronger. There was no way of knowing how deep the rot went— _this time_ , supplied a mutinous voice in his head—or who he could trust. Besides Phryne. The irony was not lost on him—the woman he had left because they could not be what the other needed was the one person he could rely on without doubt.

Beside him, Phryne stood up, muttering something about being too hot and starting to unbutton her blouse. He blinked; she did tend to run warm, but the room was barely above freezing and she wasn’t dressed—shit.

“Phryne,” he said; she looked at him, expression dazed.

He should have fucking noticed.

“Phryne, I need you to—hold on—” he stood, shucking off his suit jacket. “Get the wet blouse off, but I need you to put this on. Then sit down, alright? We’re going to have to risk a fire—”

She looked at him, still disoriented.

“But the—”

“Phryne, you need to trust me,” he said, attempting to put as much authority into his words as possible. “Nod if you understand.”

She did, her movements slow and clumsy. He pulled the jacket around her shoulders, cursing his inattention—in the dim moonlight he hadn’t noticed her lips turning blue, hadn’t thought of her wet clothes, hadn’t…

He guided her to the chair and quickly stood up to start a fire.

———

Phryne was vaguely aware of the sound of Jack moving. She was so hot, but she had to trust Jack. He’d sounded so worried, and his jacket smelled of him and she was so hot, maybe she could just—

“Phryne, keep the jacket on. I’ll be another minute.”

There was a scratching sound—a match, Phryne’s mind eventually supplied—and the sound of a fire kindling. He muttered something and she looked in his direction, her brain refusing to make much sense of his shape outlined by the low, flickering flames. Eventually he stood, crossing the small distance to grab the arms of the chair and pull it closer to the fire with Phryne still in it. Some part of her wanted to joke, tease him about… it was gone, her mind too slow. She was so hot.

Jack crouched down, taking her hands in his, concern etched on his features.

“Phryne, I looked again. I can’t find any blankets. You are showing signs of serious hypothermia. Do you understand?”

Oh, that made sense. God, her head was so foggy. She tried to nod, but her head didn’t seem to be cooperating.

“We need to get you warm.”

“So hot,” she protested.

“I know you feel hot,” he said, beginning to rub her hands between his. “I need you to trust me though. Can you do that?”

“With my life, Jack.”

His smile was bittersweet and Phryne found it made her want to cry.

“That is what’s at stake, Miss Fisher, so I hope you mean it.”

“Always meant it,” she murmured.

A minuscule nod and he helped her to stand, taking the seat and pulling her onto his lap. Something settled over them—his coat—and he began to briskly run his hands over her body, so far from the ways he had touched her in the past. She wanted to make it right.

“No need for pretense, Jack…”

He laughed, a a harsh, barking sound that held no humour. Had she done that to him? She couldn’t remember why.

One of his hands had come up to the nape of her neck, warm in a way that was different to that sharp heat that was spiking through her; she began to shiver, lightly at first and then so strongly her teething were chattering and tears filled her eyes.

“Not sure… this is… helping,” she chattered.

“Trust me,” he repeated, still running his free hand over her limbs.

Eventually the shivers subsided, the warmth from the fire and his body and the coat atop them, and Phryne realised how cold she must have been. The mental fog had lifted, but she could feel exhaustion in every part of her being. Her head dropped to his shoulder, and she breathed deeply. He smelled… he smelled of all those nights they’d shared her bed, of night caps and case files. He smelled of home. She could feel sleep pulling her down, the adrenaline and the cold leaving her drained. She snuggled closer to his body.

“I do love you, you know,” she murmured, one hand toying with the placket of his shirt.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Tell me in the morning.”

———

Jack dozed on and off throughout the night, still not certain he’d done enough. Phryne remained pressed against him, and he took comfort in the little huffing snores that were so familiar; it took all his restraint not to bury his nose in her hair and pretend, just for the night, that they were still in London. That none of this had happened. It was impossible though, and he held her close to keep her warm and stayed aware of every creak and crackle. Sunrise had turned the sky through the dirty window grey when Jack heard a noise outside; he was alert immediately, and against him Phryne stiffened.

“I’ll go have a look,” he whispered.

She shook her head in disagreement, but he caught her shoulders.

“We don’t know how steady you are,” he said quietly. “The last thing we need is you falling over and alerting them we’re here.”

Conceding the point, she shuffled off his lap so he could stand. Jack grabbed the poker and approached the door slowly, peering through the window in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever had caused the noise. He couldn’t see anybody, which was a good thing. Presuming they weren’t hiding in the trees with a gun, at least. His hat still hung by the door, and he grabbed it and placed it on the end of the poker—it was a poor decoy, but the only one he had; opening the door slowly, he edged the hat through the opening. When there was no response from outside he pulled it back in, then carefully stepped through the doorway himself.

It was a possum, sitting high in the nearest tree. Jack chuckled in relief, eyes scanning the woods for any signs of their captors. Satisfied there was none, he slipped back inside the hut. When he turned back in, his breath caught—she was standing by the chair, wrapped in his coat and looking utterly exhausted. Her hair was in disarray, her lips pale, the coat sleeves hanging over her hands.

He could cross the room in three strides, hold her, kiss her, feast on her the way he had longed to since the day he’d left London. He loved her. Even now, without condition. Well, with one condition, and it had been the one she couldn’t accept and he’d been too proud to bend on. He remembered her murmured confession the night before, the feel of his lips against her hair. Three strides. Extended arms. It was all it would take.

“Miss Fisher,” he said. “You’re looking far better this morning.”

———

_Far better_. The words echoed in her head, and she cursed herself for examining them for more meaning than he gave. She forced herself to smile, biting back the clearly unwelcome feelings she was struggling to hide. He had walked away, and clearly he expected that to continue once this matter was settled. Shame for her barely-remembered confession the night before burnt through her.

“Yes, well, I imagine not freezing to death does wonders for one’s complexion,” she said. “I presume you’ll be wanting your coat back?”

“It’s daylight,” he said, eyeing the window. “We should get moving.”

“Of course.”

She slipped the coat off her shoulders, catching a whiff of their mingled scents on the collar. She thought she’d shed every tear she had for this already, but to her horror found her eyes welling up. She turned slightly so he wouldn’t notice, blinking rapidly until her eyes were cleared.

“Phryne, about last night—”

She met his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, inspector,” she said, her voice far more level than she felt. “We were just reminiscing. Happens to the best of us.”

She strode forward to hand him his coat, and continued towards the door.


	7. Chapter 7

It took an hour to reach the town, and another hour after that to get a message to Wardlow that assistance was required. By lunchtime Elizabeth MacMillan arrived, a scowl on her face even as she ushered them into her motorcar.

“I’m used to Phryne’s impulses, inspector,” she said, “but I had rather hoped there was more sense to be found in you.”

“I was hardly expecting to be drugged,” he replied, well aware she was reprimanding him for excluding her from the investigation but not having the energy to explain.

Jack slid into the back seat, surprised when Phryne did the same. It became clear a moment later, when she slipped off her shoes and pressed her head against the window, falling asleep before they hit the edge of town. Mac glanced at them over her shoulder.

“That woman could fall asleep anywhere,” she remarked dryly, letting the lecture she’d started go unfinished.

“She was hypothermic last night,” Jack said. “She seemed better by this morning, but if you…”

“I’ll examine her when we get back to Melbourne.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

Mac nodded in acknowledgement, refocusing her attentions on the road. After a few more minutes, she sighed.

“Is there any chance you’ll tell me what has my oldest friend running scared?” she asked.

“Probably the corrupt cop that abducted her.”

“Jack…” Mac seemed to be contemplating how much to tell him, but Jack was far more taken aback by the use of his first name. “She won’t tell me anything of use. I have half our mutual friends in England writing to me, asking what happened or telling me their own suppositions. Everything from ‘you were secretly a scoundrel who took her for all her money’ to ‘she tried to make you a kept man and your pride refused it’—which, by the by, was regarded as a tactical error—to ‘you are actually an actor paid to play the part of her unwitting lover, in order to best scandalise the town’.”

“None of those are true.”

“I figured as much. It doesn’t tell me what is though.”

“There were…” Jack struggled to put it into words, and retreated to the ones he’d been parroting for the better part of the year. “There were compromises that neither of us was able to make.”

“Able, or willing?”

“Either. Both. The outcome was the same regardless.”

“I suppose it was,” Mac said. “About this investigation then…”

The rest of the journey was taken up with explaining the case and Jack’s position; Mac had clearly gleamed hints from the rumour mill, but not enough to act on. Phryne woke up just before they reached Wardlow, yawning and stretching like a cat; despite everything, Jack could not help remembering all the other wakings they had shared. Including the one earlier that morning. Reminiscing indeed. He sat up a little straighter, pulling back the hand that had begun to reach out to smooth her hair.

“What did I miss?” she asked, voice soft.

“Talked footy the entire way,” Mac said, parking the motorcar. “What are we going to do about this?”

Jack shook his head. “Usually I’d say take it to the commissioner, but… I don’t know who we can trust, and we don’t have time to make inquiries. Now that’s Phryne’s known to be involved, and Doctor MacMillan’s arrival in town probably didn’t go unnoticed—” he pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. “I don’t know.”

There was no order, no procedure, for where they found themselves. They were off the edge of the map; for a man who lived his life by the rules, even when he subverted them, it was not a pleasant place to be.

“If you can’t get over the mountain, you go around it,” said Phryne.

“And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?” Jack asked.

“We spread our story before they have a chance to spread theirs, of course.”

———

The next two weeks were a flurry of activity, as Phryne reached out to the right people—Clifford first, fulfilling her promise of providing the scoop, and then the Premier of Victoria. Edmond Hogan, an old connection of her Aunt Prudence who had helped Phryne the first time she had arrived in Melbourne, acted quickly and decisively. She barely saw Jack outside of interviews and meetings, which she optimistically and stubbornly chalked up to the chaos that came with uncovering corruption, and most certainly did not consider the possibility that she was avoiding it. Utterly absurd notion.

She was in her parlour, listlessly reading the latest article—there was a picture of her and Jack with the Premier, one of them either side of the man. Even with the graininess of the photograph, she found herself trying to read Jack’s expression—sombre, still, none of that sharp wit and joy she associated with him. But perhaps that was the nature of black and white; she sighed heavily, picking up her tumbler and holding it to the light. Not even good whiskey could quite lift her out of the melancholy she found herself in, no matter how pretty the light through the glass was.

She had half-expected him to come. To lean against her mantelpiece, wry smile on his face and a drink in his hand. They would talk, seriously at first then moving on to light flirtations. And from there… well, she could no longer picture it. Her imagination had always supplied the answer before, but now she knew—she knew what his body looked like beneath the suit, the way he laughed when she brushed the back of his knee, the flavour of his kisses. Her imagination was no match for the truth.

The truth. She scoffed a bitter laugh. Well, they hadn’t even had that by the end. The truth, the truth, the truth.

She topped up her tumbler and turned back to the newspaper, still looking for answers in the photograph.

———

Jack read the newspaper article, scowling as he did so. It was, in theory, a victory; the Premier of Victoria—a connection courtesy of Miss Fisher—had declared an independent investigation into force corruption, and the winds of change were already sweeping through the ranks. But it had done nothing for his reputation within the force, and he wondered idly whether he’d remain a police officer for long. He hadn’t had a choice, of course, even before this piss-poor framing attempt; a police force left unchecked and corrupt was worse than no force at all. But the sting that this might be the choice that cost him his job…. His contemplations were interrupted by a knock at the door, and he rubbed his eyes quickly. With any luck it would be nothing more than a neighbour in need of a favour; he didn’t trust himself to respond to the inevitable media requests with any grace at the moment.

It was neither, of course.

“Miss Fisher.”

She held up a bottle of whiskey with a small, tentative smile.

“Nightcap?”

Shaking his head in resignation—oh, he wanted her here, but he could not deal with this, not now. It was too much, too soon. She stepped inside, removing her hat and coat and hanging them on a peg, then followed him into his parlour. Her gaze was curious as she took in his home, but she remained mercifully silent as she poured them each a drink and took a seat.

Jack took his own seat, and they drank in silence, watching the fire in the grate, the clock on the mantel the only sound.

“I would have married you, you know,” she said after several minutes. “Probably. Eventually.”

He drained his drink. This was not what he had been expecting when she’d arrived.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she said. “I’m tired of rumours and half-truths and… I do. This, at least, I have to do.”

He sighed, setting the tumbler on the table between them.

“You were right, Phryne,” he said. “It was a terrible idea.”

“It was. But you had a point—eventually people would talk, and I would never cost you your job,” she gave him a small, warm smile. “You’re a policeman, Jack, and I think recent events have proven how important that is. I’d never ask you to give that up.”

He frowned, but before he could provide his own self-recrimination she continued speaking.

“Eventually marriage would have to be discussed. But I wasn’t going to marry you simply because rumours may happen at some point in the future. I will not have my life dictated by the whims of society.”

She had said something very much along those lines the night of their argument, but he’d been too fixated on the solution to recognise the problem.

“I was glad you said no,” he said, then smiled wryly. “Probably. Eventually.”

She looked surprised, and Jack fiddled with his glass.

“We would have both been unhappy.”

“Well, that’s pessimistic,” she said.

“I meant…” he waved his hand around his parlour, “I like my home. I like my solitude. I would have resented the chaos of your household, and you’d have resented my taciturn nature. It would have gone horribly wrong within a year.”

She laughed softly.

“You’re probably right,” she admitted. “But I’ve missed you terribly all the same.”

“I’ve been here,” he said. “At first I hoped that you simply needed some time, and when you returned we could… after the way I behaved, I didn’t blame you for not wanting to see me. But you seemed well. Happy.”

“And how could you know that?” she asked.

“The newspapers. Collins. Doctor MacMillan.”

“Did any of these gossipmongers mention that it took me months to stop expecting you at crime scenes? I really don’t know how you managed to avoid me so well.”

“Luck,” he said. “I presumed you were avoiding me.”

She tilted her head as if considering it, lips twitching. “I don’t avoid people, Jack. I might, on some occasions, be circumspect with my presence, but I do not avoid.”

Remembering an evening in London when Phryne had dragged him to a party only to drag him back out again five minutes later, muttering about toffs with more hair than brains, Jack nodded sceptically.

“All the same, Miss Fisher…”

Silence fell again; Jack refilled his whiskey, then held the bottle out in offer. Phryne gave him a small smile, tilting her glass just so as he poured her another drink. He watched her profile as she took a sip, clearly mulling something over.

“What now?” she asked when she spoke again, her voice uncharacteristically hushed. “You don’t wish to marry me and I don’t wish to marry you, not as things stand. But I think… I think we still care for one another, don’t we?”

Emotion choked Jack’s throat, and he looked into his tumbler, the amber liquid catching the firelight.

“For my part, very much so,” he finally said, not looking up.

There was the sound of Phryne rising from her chair, then she moved closer to take the tumbler from his hand. When he looked up her eyes were warm, her hand gentle and certain as she took his.

“You look exhausted,” she said softly, tugging him to his feet.

“It’s been a long week,” he replied. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Just this week?” she teased, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “I am sorry. About your fellow officers. That can’t be easy.”

Jack closed his eyes; he’d almost forgotten about that since Phryne’s arrival, and he didn’t particularly want to remember it now. He could smell her perfume—lavender and citrus and something he could never quite put his finger on but reminded him of her—and hear the steadiness of her breath, and wished to kiss her.

Her mouth against his an undemanding press of lips against lips, more love than lust in the touch. He exhaled raggedly as she pulled away, his eyes still closed.

“Come to bed,” she said. “Sleep.”

“Phryne—”

He looked at her, certain that every ounce of longing and exhaustion and desire was etched on his face; the force of it would quell mere mortals, but she simply looked at him with affection and dry humour, her fingers toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Just sleep, Jack. Then in the morning, if you’re so inclined, you can wake me up with breakfast and snogging and all the reasons we definitely shouldn’t get married.”

He smiled despite himself, and followed her through to the bedroom.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ended up being two "chapters" left (a 200 word epilogue hardly counts as a chapter), so make sure you didn't miss the actual resolution in chapter 7.

There was some godawful racket when Jack awoke; birds, he realised after a moment. Morning. Empty bed. He closed his eyes, surprised at the vividness of his dreams the previous night.

“You can’t still be asleep,” came a voice, still husky with sleep.

His eyes flew open as he clutched the blanket to his chest, only realising how absurd the action was when Phryne laughed. She had changed her dress from the previous night into one of his pyjama shirts, her hair still mussed and a cup of tea in her hands.

“Come here,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and tug her towards the bed.

She set the cup down, climbing onto the bed to straddle him; her hair fell like a curtain as she looked down at him, smiling, and he reached up to cup her breast.

“Mmm, sex in the morning?” she asked, coy and amused and playful. “Whatever will people say, inspector?”

Jack growled, pulling her closer with his other hand, kissing her thoroughly. Then he smiled.

“Quite frankly, Miss Fisher, I don’t care.”

  


End file.
